


I Only Bought This Dress (so you could take it off)

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Boot Worship, Butch/Femme, Established Relationship, F/F, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Mommy Kink, Oral Sex, PWP, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, anyway, light humiliation, misogyny is the answer, why the fuck isn't there a tag for that???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 05:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21131231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: She’s walking around takinghors d’oeuvreswith manicured nails, she’s holding her champagne flute and throwing her head back andlaughingwith the museum curators wearing agoddamned dressshe never would have bought if you hadn't fucked her to pieces in it once upon a time.





	I Only Bought This Dress (so you could take it off)

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first doc McQueen long shot I started before all my drabbles and 1. it ended up not being very long 2. it's super self indulgent and porny and not much else. It's inspired heavily by the very gay Taylor swift song Dress but with....mommy kink?? added? Anyway!! I hope someone besides Isabelle likes it lmao!!! also it's not been edited by my beta so it's messssyyy.

—-

Lightning sashays out into the museum wearing a low-cut, too-tight, _decidedly sequined_ dress, and your life flashes before your fucking eyes. 

You subsequently choke on your drink. The last time you saw this particular article of clothing, it was in a dressing room at a Macy’s in Maryland, and it was hiked around her creamy hips, snagging along your forearm as you fingered her up against a dirty mirror. You remember the way the sequins scratched, how they looked flashing under the florescent lights, tinted ever so slightly pink as they reflected the flush of her skin. You remember clamping your free hand down on her gasping mouth to shut her up, because Lightning is never _ever _quiet when she's got you inside her. You could take her in the back pew of a church and still, she’d scream and whine her way through it. 

Of course, she bought that dress; she had to. You’d ruined it, made her gush into your palm and through her boy-shorts and it had gotten all over the slip of it, and there was no way in _hell_ it was going back out onto a Macy’s rack like that. But it’s not the sort of thing she’d ever actually _wear_ out in the world, so it’s been sitting forgotten in the back of her closet for months.Or so you thought. 

You stare at her, chewing the inside of your cheek at how improbable she looks right now. The dress is too feminine, too _flashy_ for her regular rotation. Lightning likes trendy sportswear, clingy jumpsuits that hug her ass and make her legs look a mile long (which she _needs, _since she barely pushes 5’6.) She likes leggings and loose blouses and silk bomber jackets with her name embroidered on the back. If she wears dresses, they’re short, athletic, stretchy things she can move around in. This means she's chronically underdressed for banquets, and you love the irreverence that creates, the way she’s _so_ fucking beautiful, but she refuses to be the exact sort of woman the world wishes she’d be: muted, respectful, gracious. 

The sequins are _so _far off brand it’s jarring. Plus, the shape of the dress highlights her tits, lengthens her neck, hits her mid-calf and is far more gaudy and formal than anything you’ve ever seen her wear in public. It’s more of a prom dress, a red carpet dress. That was the reason you told her to try it on in the first place, because you _knew_ it would push her comfort zone, that she’d look gorgeous but it would be a spectacle only _you_ got to see, alone in a dressing room in a throw-away city on the way to a Grand Prix in Brooklyn. It was a playing piece in a game you invented for her, a gambit in the game where you tease her in public by making her tease you, until neither of you can take it anymore and you find some corner to make a bad decision in. It was a dress to exploit both your weaknesses, and that was the end of it, or so you _thought. _

But she’s _wearing_ it now. In front of a mixed crowd of people all gathered here to honor the both of you at this auto museum in St. Louis, where they’ve just opened an exhibit about the history of women in racing. She’s walking around taking _hors d’oeuvres _with manicured nails, she’s holding her champagne flute and throwing her head back and _laughing_ with the museum curators wearing a _goddamned dress_ she never would have bought if you hadn't fucked her to pieces in it once upon a time. 

Across the room, her eyes meet yours, and she grins a big, cheesy, grin. There’s something _coy_ about it too, though. She knows exactly what she’s doing to you. 

You sputter while she bats her mascara clotty lashes, picking her way over carefully, since she’s not actually all that good at walking in heels but she’s wearing a pair right now, scrappy silver sandals that match the dress. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says once she’s close, cheeks pink, eyes wide and blue and mock innocent. She has eyes like the ocean on a sunny day, and they cut through you because she’s made you _soft. _“Too much champagne, _Fabulous_ Hudson Hornet?” 

“I cannot believe you,” you grumble, looking down at her sternly. She wavers closer, like the flame of a candle tipping towards an open window. 

“Can’t believe what?” she says easily, feigning innocence. There’s a slyness to the way she’s moving, though, an intentional, intolerable slant to everything she does. She’s playing innocent but she’s a fucking criminal, well aware of how she’s working you up, forcing you to imagine exactly what she looked like in that dressing room, head thrown back, mouth an obscene smear of red from you kissing her lipstick to ruin. You could cave to her right now, but you’re not that sort of woman. She’s playing a game you invented, and you’re going to _win. _You always do. So, you compose yourself, reel back from her and stand up straighter, let your gaze focus in an indistinct place beyond her shoulder and sweep the room easily. 

“I just…I think I remember this dress. Maybe not. Maybe my memory is foggy, I dunno.M’an old woman, after all.” 

She smirks, tilts her head. “The dress is brand new. Must be having a senior moment,” she quips. 

You glare at her, risking a moment of searing eye-contact. You do not miss the way her hand reflexively tightens along the stem of her champagne flute as if holding back from some primal urge and think _gotcha_ as you tear your gaze away. “Huh. Must be.” 

Together you stand, close but not touching, side by side but not _together _while the crowd bustles around you, people poring over relics from your past, Lightning’s present. Jars of dirt from the tracks you’ve both raced on, faded, framed ticket stubs from old events at Thomasville Raceway. A twisted piece of the Hornet’s bumper, something they could never quite hammer out after the crash. Photos of Lightning on her knees beside the wreck of Strip Weather’s car, her eyes wide, her hands dirty. You were somewhere in the crowd that day, a speck just like the rest of them, your heart broken and put together all at once. 

It’s strange, how much of your histories and presents are _publicly _intertwined, so much so there can be an entire _exhibit _exploring the network of knots and intersections. But none of them know the _truth. _Not her fans, not yours. Not the folks who curated this collection and presented it to the word, like they have a single fucking idea about the history of women in racing. They don’t know about the way her hands shake as she holds her trophies and you lay your palm on the small of her back for pictures, thumb teasing over the belt loops on her racing jumpsuit, they don’t know about the way your stomach plummets when you catch sight of her red lips from the corner of your eye. They have no fucking _idea_ you once made her come in this dress, that you know the exact shape of her throat from memory, the exact places to kiss if you want to make her cry. That you love her, and somehow, miraculously, she loves you back. 

“People keep coming up to me tonight and telling me how lucky I am to have you as a crew chief,” she says like she’s reading your mind, shuffling unsteadily in her heels, close enough you can feel the heat of her body as the turns to face you. “I keep saying, _you have no idea. _Because they don’t, you know?” 

“I know,” you tell her, studying the way she’s schooling her expressions, trying her damnedest to stay unreadable. She’s not very good at it, though. Lightning always wears everything on her sleeve, heart blood and lipstick and longing and shame, all fish in a barrel for you to shoot though. “They don’t know a damned thing. But I do. I know what you look like with that dress around your waist,” you whisper, leaning close enough only she can hear the low scrape of it, hoarse and dragging. 

She almost gasps but then she bites it back, instead reaching out to brush her fingers with their pristine, manicured nails over the knot of your navy tie. It’s the briefest touch, so quick no one else in the room could have possibly caught it, but you know it happened all the same because your mouth is parched dry, your heart is thundering in your chest. “Catch you later tonight, Doc,” she says, and turns away on her heel, the perfumed curtain of her hair whipping around her shoulder as she walks away from you, threading back into the crowd. 

You chew the inside of your cheek as you watch her ass sway back and forth hypnotically in all those fucking sequins. Goddammit, you’re going to _get_ her tonight. You’re going to show her it doesn’t matter who's there to watch you, or watch but misread every loaded stare or licked lip. You’re going to have her because she made you _think_ of having her. Because she _wanted_ you to think of having her, a decision she _consciously _made by wearing that dress. Of reminding you here in a crowded room of how different things are between the two of you behind locked doors. So, you watch her without trying to seem too much like you’re watching her, and wait for the moment she sets her glass down, and slips off to find the restroom. 

She expects you to follow. It’s part of the game, but she still play-acts like she’s surprised when you push in behind her. You spin to lock the door, grateful it’s a one of many single-stalled bathrooms instead of a communal space, though you’re not even sure that would deter you, at this point. You catch the mock-bewildered blue of her eyes with your own, and then you're upon her, dragging her in by the waist to kiss her, sequins scraping your arms up just like the first time.

Like ice cream under the glare of a summer sun Lighting melts into you, and the game is over, the guise is up. She's moaning and shuddering and pawing all over your body, knowing _full well _what she’s done, how much she’s riled you up. “Oh my god,” she murmurs when you pull back to mouth up the straining cords in her neck. “I—I thought I’d be able to pull this off or at least fuck with you for _longer_ but you _made me wet_ out there and I’m and _idiot_ and didn’t wear underwear,” she moans, scrubbing a hand through the back of your hair, messing up your waxed quiff. “Plus, _love_ you in a suit.” 

“You _what?” _you grind out, fingers tightening in a bruising flicker. “My god, kid. You really went for the throat tonight, didn't you,” you hiss as the reality sinks into you. Then you’re pushing her up against the wall, pinning both her arms over her head so she can’t stop you from working one hand between her thighs. “Show me. Spread a little, princess.” 

She whines, kicking one heeled foot out a ten inches or so away from the other, bracing against tile as you hike her dress up a bit, gathering it so that you can drag your fingers punishingly slow up the inside of her thigh. “You can’t—you _can’t_ just talk about fucking me when there are people around. I start to drip,” she whispers, wincing, gasping. 

“Wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t wear things that made me do it. Or _not_ wear things. You little _shit, _how did you think you’d get away with this?” You breathe hot and low against Lightning’s ear as your fingers skate through slickness. She _is wet, _all the way down the plush ditch of her thigh. You wish you had enough restraint to stop short of actually touching the swollen heat of her cunt, but you just _don’t. _Your mouth is watering, and you want to _feel_ more than you want to make her wait, you need to witness the damage you’ve done first hand, test _exactly_ how much you’ve ruined your baby girl. 

So, you hold your breath as you gently curl your her middle and ring fingers up into Lightning’s folds and _fuck, _god, your heart stops fast in your throat. “You shaved,” you murmurs, heart thundering, stomach knotted as you thumb over the hungry little nub of her clit. You thought you were just going to finger-fuck Lightning until she came in the dress again and be done with it, but now you want _more _from her, want her fingers, her mouth. You want her to feel what she does to you, too. 

“Waxed,” Lightning says breathlessly, squirming, bearing down on your fingers. “It—I hope you like it.” 

You take your time thumbing over her sticky, smooth lips, mouth positively _flooded_ at the thought of what she’ll feel like under your tongue, how soft she is. Generally you prefer pubic hair, you love the blonde downy thatch of it Lightning grows. But there’s something insanely sexy about preparation. Of slick, uninhibited, bare skin. “Love you every single way,” you breathe against her ear, circling your index finger over the swollen bump of her clit relentlessly. “God, so soft down here, so sweet. Just want to spread you open, eat you up.” 

Lightning makes a sound between a moan and a wordless complaint, and you tighten your grip on her wrists, cutting the circulation off with a sharp squeeze as you push her up against the wall, remind her where you have her. “Please,” Lightning mumbles, thinking that it’ll _help_, to beg. That she’s gonna get what she _wants_ after the stunt she pulled tonight. 

“Oh I will. Back home, M’gonna push this dress up over your hips, lay you out across my lap, and spank you until you’re red, babygirl,” you tell her, pushing your middle finger up into the searing clench of her cunt, making her twist her hips and yelp. “Then m’gonna flip you over. Make you come in my mouth so many times you lose count.” 

“At _home?!” _Lightning whines, shuddering dramatically, sounding like she’s about to fucking _cry _as she rides your fingers, needy and desperate._ “ _Doc, _mommy, _I can’t wait that long, I can’t—”

“_Fuck, “_ you grind out. Every time she calls you that it shocks you like ice water, like purifying fire. It _shouldn’t_ be hot, it should play into your existing insecurities about your age difference, how you could _easily, _several times over be her mother. Even her _grandmother. _But instead it burns you from the inside out, how _eager_ she is to have you fill every role, every void, every vacancy. How much she trusts you, not just to fuck her to pieces but _take_ care of her. 

“You can come, sweetheart,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss her rich and deep, biting her lips, smearing the painted red of her all over you both. She pushes spit into your mouth, makes it filthy almost instantly. Lightning kisses so _wet _when she’s like this, all spit and _teeth, _like she’s looking to swallow something whole. You love it because you love drowning in her, you love having to swallow after you’ve sucked the slippery mess of her tongue. “I’ll let you come, but I’m not gonna do it for you. You have to wait for that. I’ll let you get yourself off while you get _me_ off, that’s it.” 

Lightning’s breath comes out in a needy, tremulous gale at that, and her kisses get even wetter, sharper, dirtier. “Yes, yes, please, _god,” _she groans hoarsely, licking the corner of your mouth. “Will you let me eat you out, mommy? _God, _please,” she sobs, starting to twist her wrists in your grip so insistently you let go to watch her spin and sink to her knees, sequins glinting under the fluorescent glare of the overhead. It’s such a pretty sight you’re suddenly dizzy just looking at her, so you anchor her hands in her hair to steady yourself, adjust so your back is flush against the unwavering solidity of the wall 

“Yeah babygirl, give me that sweet mouth,” you urge, unbuckling your belt with clumsy fingers, arching your back to work your slacks down your thighs. Lightning reaches up to help but you gently slap her hand away before encircling her wrist tightly, pressing a thumb into the latticework of veins on the underside. “Just your mouth,” you order, wanting to watch her get _creative, _push herself past the point of whatever flash of brilliance (and balls) it took to find and wear this dress out in public. Then, so sudden it makes your mouth dry, you remember the way Lightning coyly brushed her fingers over the knot of your tie out there in the crowd. How _smug_ she was teasing you, how complacent. 

Your hands move to ease the knot of your tie open. “Gimme those hands, angel. Gonna tie them up, make the rules easier on you.” 

Lightning rubs her face into your pants, gasping. “But—how will I get myself off?” she asks then, tilting her head back, blonde unspooling like spun gold down her back as it shines under the overhead light. “Mommy,” she adds, fluttering her lashes, chewing her lip in a blatant display of feigned innocence. She thinks she can soften you up, that you’re gonna go easy on her because she’s on her knees for you in a public restroom, looking pouty in glitter and calling you _mommy_ like that’ll bowl you over, but you’re tougher than that. You know what she _actually _wants.

“You’re a smart girl, rookie. You’ll figure it out, huh?” You tell her instead, tugging the tie from your collar. The fabric is still warm from the proximity to your skin, and you hope Lightning _notices_ as you loops it around her wrists, knotting it tightly enough it does the job without digging too tight. You loves watching her pale skin dimple under the pressure of navy silk, stomach dropping at the way she squirms, knees already red from kneeling. “God, you’re so gorgeous,” you murmur, double knotting your tie before you’re satisfied. “Look so slutty for me. My pretty little girl begging to suck on her mommy.” 

Lightning trembles, gazing up at you from the floor, cheeks pink like she’s humiliated even though you _know_ she _loves_ being tied up, loves obstacles and restraint and ways to prove herself. “I want to taste you,” she confirms, hands bound inexpertly but very prettily in front of her as she shifts the weight of her hips back and forth, dress crinkling audibly around her. “Please.” 

“You’ll get it,” you murmur, messing up her hair with a roving hand, snagging it, making a fist in the loosely styled curls. There’s a sticky stiffness to the outer layer of it from hairspray, so you sink your fingers in deeper to find something soft, the downy bits close to her scalp, to her neck. “Open your mouth, babygirl, lemme see that pink tongue.” 

She does as she’s told and you let your pants drop lower down your thighs, weighted by your belt. Then you hook your fingers in the elastic of your briefs and pull those down too, head swimming at the absurdity, the _miracle _of this whole scenario: Lightning McQueen on her knees in a museum bathroom, looking at you as she licks her lips, eyes hooded with want. She loves you so much, wants you so _bad, _after you believed wholly and for so many years that by being old and bitter and long past your prime, no girl ever would. Certainly none as beautiful as her, with that wheat-field bronze hair, that lush crimson mouth. She’s a dream, a painting, and she’s _yours_. “Please Mommy,” she begs, arching her back filthy and deep, and you shake your head in disbelief, dragging her in by her hair until her pretty red lips nudge up into the dusky grey-brown of your pubic hair. 

It takes her a second to spread her knees and dip down enough to get the angle right, but finally her sweet wet tongue swipes lengthwise up the crease of your outer lips. You gasp and she groans impatiently, like it’s not deep enough, not good enough. So, you reach down with your index and middle finger and spread yourself for her, clit swollen and exposed for less than a second before she’s swirling her tongue around it hungrily. “Fuck, that’s it, princess,” you curse, digging blunt nails into the back of her skull, static making your vision hazy as your jerk reflexively into the maddening heat of her mouth. “So good.” 

She moans right against you, the vibration making your breath catch. The circumstances are hot enough you don’t need finesse to get off, but that’s not stopping her. She’s so determined to eat you out _good, _working to get as deep as she can, so she shifts impatiently in that constricting dress, wiggling so it hikes up her thighs and gathers around her waist. With her thighs spread raw and wide and cranes her neck, really pushes her tongue up inside of you, licking like she’s clearly been wanting to all fucking night. When she pulls away, there’s a shining filament of spit connecting her red lips to your cunt, lipstick on her chin. “Spread yourself wider” she murmurs, eyes shot black with pupil as she looks up through a mess of hair. “Want everything.” 

She’s really not in a position to be making demands, but you’ll listen to her this time, about this thing. She feels too fucking good to deny, so you reach down to give her more access, loving the way she dives back in, sucking and licking so _noisily, _like she’s totally forgotten there’s a party happening just outside. She’s wet and hungry an the slippery plush of her mouth eels like heaven, so much so your eyes flutter closed for a moment before you decide you can’t stand to not look at her. “My perfect girl,” you whisper, moving a foot between her generously spread thighs to anchor better as she eats you out up against the wall, hard enough it throws your balance if you’re not properly braced. 

You should see it coming, but it’s hard to see anything beyond static and heat and the way she looks with her mouth open and her eyes closed and her wrists trussed up in your tie. But then she’s sinking lower and lower, until you feel the hot-wet weight of her settle on top of your black-leather boot, and she moans into your cunt, eyes squeezing shut even tighter. 

It looks like she’s found a way to get off after all. She grinds into you, ass shifting rhythmically, shaved cunt sliding up and down the shiny Italian leather. “You filthy thing,” you growl, pulling her closer, grinding your clit into the slick-smooth of her lapping tongue just as she grinds her clit into your laces. “So desperate to come you’re gonna rub off there? Ruin my expensive boots?” 

She nods eagerly, hips stuttering as she bucks again you. You’re imagining the sweet pink of her folds spread wide over your laces, how sensitive and swollen she must be, how _intense_ it must feel, how much you’d hate if you were her. But you’re not her. She always likes things to hurt a little, is always more turned on by something if it’s inherently subservient or humiliating. She loves being spanked, she loves being naked and ruined while you’re fully clothed. Apparently she likes your shoe to be the only thing separating her cunt from a bathroom floor, likes her come-stained dress gathering around her waist sluttily, leaving her thighs flexing and bare. “Fuck, princess, want to see you come like that,” you order, hands snagging though her hair, ruining the work she did to make it pretty for this event, pretty for _you_. “You get me off with that tongue and then you hump my boot until you finish. Want you to drench me.” 

She whines, pulling back to look up at you with a lipstick smeared pout, eyes hazy and hooded as she grinds filthy and slow. “Fuck my mouth, mommy,” she whimpers, hips rolling as she rides you, everything about her so fucking maddening and gorgeous and improbable your stomach is in knots, dropping like you’ve missed a step, like you’re falling. 

“C’mere, lemme give it to you,” you murmur, voice thick and tattered because she _does_ this to you. Rips you open, turns you inside out, teaches you new tricks even though you are an old, old dog. You reach for her, curling your fingers into her hair on either side of her face and tugging her back in. She groans as she goes—a submissive, broken sort of groan. And then she’s _there, _slick and hungry and it’s not gonna take much for you to come, with the way she looks like that, grinding on your boot, silver heels touching behind her ass. 

You hold her steady and fuck her mouth, circling your hips to rub hungrily on the wide, wet swath of her tongue as she laps as at you, drooling onto her chin, drips of it lading on her bound hands. “That feel good?” you ask her, still marveling at the way she’s moving, how willing to be _ruined_ she is. She nods eagerly and you buck closer, following her movement, tracking and mimicking as you thrust desperately into the drooling heat of her mouth. You’re so close, _so close_ and she’s so wet, so needy, and so suddenly, it hits you like a truck. “_Fuck, _babygirl, right there. Right there.” 

She freezes and licks dutifully before she takes your clit between her lips and _sucks, _and you're done, you’re soaring, your capsizing. Your orgasm comes in ragged waves, the sort which make you quake seismically, the whole of you shuddering there against the wall while Lightning whines against your cunt, still sucking in desperate pulses. Gasping, you tighten the fists you have in your hair to steady yourself and keep from collapsing. It’s there, suffocating between your braced legs, that Lighting comes, too. You feel it, you _recognize it, _the way she locks up and whimpers and snaps, rubbing herself into you so hard, eyes wide and heartbreakingly blue as she looks up at you with a lost, hungry look reflecting back in the pupils. “God,” you gasp, thumbing over her cheekbone, watching her pulse speed in the sweat-damp flicker of her throat. “Look at you.” 

As soon as it hit you it disintegrates into oversensitivity, and you have to push her away, gasping. “Jesus,” you moan, petting her hair. “Come on up here angel, lemme untie you.” 

“I—I don’t think my legs work anymore,” she croaks, holding her bound arms up in the space between your bodies, cheeks flushed, chin shining. “Untie me first. Gonna need my hands to get up. _God. _I came so hard but also, _these heels, _fuck them.” 

You laugh, chest tight with how very much you love her, how perfect and silly and gorgeous she looks there, sitting on your boot, legs spread and shaky, spiked heels glittering under the overhead to match her sequins. “You’re the prettiest thing,” you tell her, fitting a finger into the knot of your tie to loosen it enough to unlace. Once you slide it off her wrists you gently rub your thumbs into the pink marks it left for a few seconds before you bend down to press a kiss to her pulse. “There you go.” 

It’s a whole process, Lightning McQueen staggering to her feet. You help and you watch, choked with adoration, loving the way she’s dizzy and sloppy and _goofy, _now, giggling at you, bright-eyed and red-cheeked as you help her to her feet and put her up against the wall so she doesn’t sink to the floor again in a heap of sequins and limbs. You heft your pants up and stare at her, buckling your belt while her grin fades into a troubled, exasperated frown. “I don’t want to go back out there,” she complains, knees visibly quaking. “I’m all—-my head is fucked, not just my body. M’a mess. I just want to crawl around you on all fours or something. Or lie with my head in your lap. Or have you cuddle me or _oh—_take a _bath_ in that fancy tub we have in the hotel room. Before you eat me out like you promised, of course.” 

You step towards her to cup her face, study her and thumb up the lipstick marks on her chin. Then you kiss her slow and sweet, loving the way she just melts, softening into your arms like carnival ice cream in the sun. Your girl, always. “This is your fault, kid. You’re the only who decided to wear that dress and tease me until I came in here to do something about it,” you remind her. “Wasn’t my idea to skip out at our own party.” 

She pouts into the kiss. “I know,” she sighs, curling her arms around your back, tipping into you so heavy she almost sets you both off balance. “It was stupid. But worth it. Maybe you should punish me when we get back home,” she says with a grin, waggling her eyebrows. 

“You _want_ to go home. Some punishment. You’re asking me to spoil you,” you observe, but the truth is she's got you more than halfway there. You’re shaky too, and you’re _wet, _her spit and your come uncomfortable _here, _now, let alone out there in a fucking museum where you'll be expected to chat folks up. The hotel room is sounding more and more appealing and _plus, _you can’t stop thinking about how pretty her cunt looks when its waxed smooth, how she’d probably swollen and flushed red from fucking your boot like that. You want to feel the puffy raw heat of her under your tongue. You _want_ to spoil her. “You came on my boot,” You recall, looking down at the leather skeptically. “Guess if we go back out m’gonna have to clean that up, too. And your face.” 

“Or,” she says, taking the tie from your hands and draping it around your neck coyly, looking up at you with a burning glint in her eye, “we could ditch the bathroom, sneak out the back door, and _fucking leave.” _

You sigh, pulling her close, kissing the top of her head. “Your hair _is_ messed up.” 

“And my make up. And your shoe. And this _dress, _look at the floor, I’ve been shedding sequins for hours,” she explains, gesturing loosely, wrist still clearly bearing the mark of having been bound. Your stomach swoops. If you leave this room and let people see her, they’ll know. They’ll _know_ she’s yours, or at least suspect it, and as oddly attractive that is in theory, you know it’s just not the way things can go, right now. The world isn't ready for a Lightning McQueen they can’t have.

“Fine,” you say, squeezing her ass with both hands, dress crinkling up under your palms. “Meet me at the valet in five minutes. I’ll hit the front and say goodbye, you get yourself out the back without anyone seeing what a fucking mess I made of you, huh?” 

“You got it, chief,” she grins, the cut of it a wide, hectic, beautiful shape. And the way she smiles …the brilliance, the relief, and heat, the splendor? It makes every fucking second she's not yours in public worth it. You get this, instead: one hundred private moments, one hundred small, magical, burning nods of intimacy for you and you alone. A dress is just a dress to the rest of the world, but you know what it means. So much glitter littering the floor, stuck to your palms like scales. 


End file.
